“I would marry you to-morrow if I could,” he answered despondently. “Do you think this doesn’t hurt me as well as you? I am not quite such a brute as to filch a woman’s love, and then toss it aside without caring, Marjorie. Besides, you’ve been so sweet and good to me. A man couldn’t know you as I do, without loving you and wanting to be loved in return. I’ve tried to steel my heart against you all along, but it was impossible. Love is so strong; it will not be bound down by rules and regulations: it has been too powerful for you and me.” “Yes, love is strong,” she repeated breathlessly. “Stronger than death. We can’t stifle its promptings any more than we can stay the flow of the waves. It’s the future I’m thinking of, dearest, the future. What shall we do?... What shall we do?... Nobody knows about your wife--nobody need know.... Couldn’t we--just you and I--go right away, out of England, perhaps, and---- Oh, God, what am I saying? Herbert, Herbert, you have broken my heart!” She hid her face in the silken sofa-cushions, and burst into a torrent of weeping. For the moment she felt as if she could never look any one in the face again. An overwhelming sense of shame took possession of her whole being. Worst of all, she had lost her self-respect in the eyes of the man she loved! But Herbert knew that her words were the result of a mind distorted by anguish, for it was surely not the pure and virtuous Marjorie who thus set herself forth as temptress! Flinging himself down by the couch, he tried to comfort and soothe her, begging her forgiveness for the suffering he had caused. And then he reminded her, that, in spite of the dreariness of the outlook, she still would have the comfort of her child. “Yes, thank God I have my child!” she murmured brokenly. “Life would not be worth living--now--without Bobbie.” Presently the clock struck six--the time she usually went home. She rose to her feet and dried her eyes; and scarcely had she done so ere the door opened to admit her little son, armed with her cloak and hat. Fortunately, being dusk, he did not notice the unwonted dejection of her manner, or that her eyes were red with weeping. Lady Marjorie sent him off to see if the carriage had arrived; then, when the last sound of his little feet trotting down the stairs died away, she turned once more towards Karne. “This must be our good-bye, Herbert,” she said, in a muffled voice. “Of course I cannot come here any more. Do not tell Celia the reason; I would rather she did not know.” “As you wish,” he replied gloomily. “You’ve no idea how I shall miss your visits, Marjorie. Must it really be good-bye?” “Yes,” she rejoined quickly. “To look into your eyes, to hear you speak, would be torture to me now--I couldn’t bear it. Away from you I may be able to forget. That is what will be my chief aim in the future--to forget.”